


Just Like the Sun

by Novels



Series: Reprise [9]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: A tiny bit of angst i guess, Domesticity, Fluff, Just a sprinkle, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, book-verse, reference to real-life historical events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 21:43:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20571380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novels/pseuds/Novels
Summary: Oliver and Elio finally enjoy some time alone and get to talk about some rather sensitive memories.Please read the notes for a necessary warning.As always, this is a sequel toNot By Chanceand won't make much sense if read alone.





	Just Like the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Lengthy note, forgive me.
> 
> 1\. **WARNING**: I'd rather not give too much away, but be aware that Oliver and Elio quite briefly talk about something extremely dreadful that truly happened in the U.S. in 2001, not so coincidentally around this time of the year. If you'd rather not read about it, please skip the first paragraph and start reading from "Back to his flat...". It's sufficient to know that Elio and Oliver went out for dinner, talked a bit, and then headed to Oliver's.
> 
> 2\. In the book, Elio meets Oliver at his university in 1998. All we know about what happens next is that Oliver goes back to B. for one night five years later. Although it's never specified, it's not too much of a stretch to think they kept in touch enough that Oliver felt he could visit Elio, right? 
> 
> Right, I think that's it.   
Enjoy!

Oliver took me out for dinner, our hands not quite touching as we walked side by side on the pavement, our shoulders brushing as we moved through the crowd. We talked about everything and anything -- our families, our careers, his kids, my mother, Marzia and Chloé, my music, a new philosopher in his department who loved to contradict him, Bush and his reckless war.

"I-- do you remember when I told you you are the only person I’d like to say goodbye to when I die? And that if I heard that you died, I would cease to exist as I exist now?" It was a morbid thing to ask over dessert, I thought, but a memory had resurfaced and I felt like I needed to talk about it, about the moment in which I thought I had lost him for good.

Oliver nodded, looking unsure where the conversation was going.

"When I first heard that two planes had crashed into the Twin Towers I felt like I was about to die myself. I couldn't stop thinking you might be dead and no-one would even think of letting me know. I almost threw up when your wife picked up and told me you were safe." I could still remember the vile taste of panic in my mouth as I ran back home from the recording studio, fumbling with my organiser to find his home number, praying he was safe, praying for at least one more chance to say goodbye.

Oliver looked surprised. "You called?"

I nodded, smiling self-deprecatingly. "It took all the self-control I had not to break down on the phone. That would have prompted a very awkward explanation to your wife." I had managed to hang up before collapsing into a chair, the sheer amount of relief knocking me over. I had let myself cry then, alone in the safety of my flat, an ocean to divide us but still on the same planet, still alive. It was then that I had decided that I would try to mend things between us, one way or another. Even if Oliver was lost as a lover, I had thought, I could still have him in my life somehow. 

"She never mentioned it," he said. I shrugged. 

"I'm sure there were quite a lot of phone calls that day, Oliver. I was just one of the many making sure you were all OK. But it did make me realise I didn't want to risk losing you like that, without having talked to you in years. That's why I started writing."

I could see Oliver was affected by my words. He looked rueful, his eyes staring into mine with a hint of sadness and regret. "We have lost so much time, Elio," he said. It was true. It was what it was. "Let's go home."

*

Back to his flat, we fell into bed hastily, continuing our conversation with our mouths and hands and bodies. He took me gently, cradled me as we made love, drank my groans as I let him take me apart. It felt bittersweet, reality seeping into the act, both aware that we had lived separate lives for decades. I indulged in thoughts of what it might have been like to grow into middle age together, to experience the first successes in our careers side by side, to be together when the saddest news came and my father was suddenly gone. I am sure Oliver was doing the same. I could feel it in the way he moved against me, in the slow, pensive drag of his kisses.

For once, we made love not to find each other again, not to whisper promises of a future together, but to honour what could have been, that parallel existence we could have lived if only we had made different choices. That one time, we let our bodies mourn a past that never was, worship decades of impossibilities.

It felt cathartic, like letting go of an ache that had become so entrenched in my being I could barely detect it. We silently acknowledged the pain we had felt for all those years, the longing hidden at the bottom of our hearts and minds, and finally prodding at those memories stopped hurting, because I was not tormenting myself with them, but I was accepting them as part of me, of what brought me to this moment, to Oliver.

Exhausted and sated, overwhelmed by so many different emotions, we fell asleep in each other's arms, uncaring of the stickiness between us, of the heat unrelenting even at night. 

*

I woke up with Oliver snoring softly against my neck and it took me a moment to realise I was not dreaming of a summer lost in the past. A wave of awe and gratitude washed over me, mixed with unbearable relief. This was true, I had to remind to myself as I turned to stare at him. Oliver was right next to me, his expression soft and unguarded as he slept. I reached out hesitatingly, not wanting to wake him but unable to resist touching his face, my fingers stroking his cheek, tracing his elegant profile. His lips were slightly parted and I caressed them softly, just like he had so many years ago at the berm. They puckered to place a kiss on my fingertips and I looked up to see Oliver staring at me with sleepy eyes full of wonder. For years I had been on the receiving end of adoring gazes, hungry gazes, begging gazes, yet never did they manage to move me like Oliver's. The surprise, the gratefulness I could see in his eyes I was certain he could see reflected in mine. It felt like a miracle, like we had been blessed with something precious to protect and look after.

"Morning," he whispered, and I kissed him as an answer, softly, so softly, as not to break the bubble that seemed to have engulfed us. He drew me closer and I buried my face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his heady scent, letting the weight of his arm bear me down, anchor me to him and to the bed. We dozed off again, revelling in the hazy knowledge that it was Sunday morning and we could spend all day in bed if we felt like it.

When I woke up again, Oliver was already awake and apparently ready to get up.

"Elio, we are rather filthy, peach." I groaned and cuddled him tighter, unwilling to let him go just yet. Had he really just called me peach? I felt myself blush at the sudden memory, one of those I kept locked behind several very heavy doors inside my head.

"C'mon, we can shower together, how does that sound?" 

"Marginally better," I mumbled as I cracked one eye open to give him a side glance. "And don't call me that."

I saw his smile turn into a smirk. "What, peach? But it is ever so fitting."

I huffed a snort, burying my face into the pillow. "I'll never live that down, won't I?"

He chuckled as he stood, grabbing me by my arm to quite literally drag me out of bed. 

"I fear not. Now come shower with me, Elio. I'm sure I can find a way to make it worth the effort of getting out of bed."

*

We spent the day quietly, reading, talking, exchanging caresses and light kisses on the sofa. It felt achingly familiar and wonderfully new at the same time. The Oliver I had fallen in love with twenty years ago was still there, older and wiser, perhaps, but fundamentally himself nonetheless. I hoped he felt the same about me, I hoped I wasn't too different from what he remembered. 

Some time after dinner, I resolved to ask him.

"Oliver," I said as I finished rinsing a dish, "are you happy with this?"

He turned to look at me with a slight frown. "With the way you are cleaning my dishes?"

I rolled my eyes at him. "With me, I meant. Are you happy with me being here?"

He dried his hands with a towel. "Isn't it evident enough?"

I shrugged at that but I couldn't quite keep the hesitation out of my voice. "Just making sure you still-- like me as I am now."

His expression softened and he wrapped his hands around my waist, dragging me closer. "Of course I do, my sun."

I wrinkled my nose at that endearment but I still felt myself blushing and I couldn't quite suppress a smile. 

"What? Would you rather I keep using 'peach'?"

"Elio works just fine, you know," I huffed but I could tell he knew I was just putting up a front.

He placed a kiss on the tip of my nose. "It's pretty much the same thing, after all."

He chuckled at that and untangled our bodies to move to the sofa.

I grabbed our glasses from the table and settled next to him, picking up a book I had left on the coffee table and resting my head on his lap as he went through some of the notes for his next book.

We stayed like that for some time, quietly enjoying each other's presence. Oliver's fingers threaded through my hair now and then. It felt so domestic, so normal. So right. 

The doorbell ringing cut through the silence and Oliver and I exchanged a surprised glance before I sat up and he stood to open the door.

"Michael," he said letting his son in. "What are you doing here?"

"Hi dad, hi Elio," he muttered, not quite meeting our eyes. "I'm so sorry, but I had to talk with you. I think I might have messed up terribly."

**Author's Note:**

> One tiny thing: when Elio says calling him by his name or calling him "my sun" is the same thing he is of course referring to the literal meaning of his name (Helios is the Greek name of the God of the sun).
> 
> I will update as soon as I can, as always thank you for reading! :)


End file.
